The Other Side of the Coin
by Brievel
Summary: Canon events, told from a different point of view. May be pro-Imperial/Imperial-POV
1. Just Doing the Job

**This one's for Malicean, for convincing me that not all the Imperials were bad guys.**

* * *

I don't know - they seemed like good people, typical Tatooine moisture farmers, eking out a living. Older couple - but there were signs of a teenage boy around the place, and they definitely had droids, and they refused to answer questions. I've heard that most the Rebels seem like good people, too. You just can never know. And though it may seem harsh - many hate us, in the white armor, for just doing our job - but sometimes, it just has to be done. Sometimes, you just have to eliminate the enemies of the Empire. We can't let anarchy take over.

I don't mean to imply that there aren't thugs that wear the white armor of His Majesty's troops - there are. I've had a few brawls with a few of them myself. But despite what urban legend would have you believe, we're not all cruel sadists who take pleasure in killing. I don't. But neither do I want our great Empire to be toppled by a few conniving Machiavellian politicians manipulating uneducated malcontents. So I follow orders, and if some innocents slip through the cracks - it's regrettable, and I'm sorry. We're careful. But accidents happen.

Still, if I felt a twinge of regret, pulling the trigger on that pleading, tearful old woman, I don't suppose the bosses will ever know.


	2. You Will Be

"You will be." Obi-Wan had always known that Anakin would be with him when he died. Though Darth Vader denied the existence of Anakin Skywalker any longer, deep inside, some small part of him keened for the loss of friend, brother, father, mentor, Master. Obi-Wan's words, spoken so many years ago, haunted the Sith Lord. "You will be with me when I die." Twenty years of separation, mourning, waiting, working, emptiness and loneliness. Twenty years, to finish what he'd started on Mustafar. Yet now that he had, his triumph held no savor; the fruits of victory leaving in his mouth the familiar taste of ashes.

"You will be." And he was.


	3. Empty

Qatee brings over another mug of tea for me and sets it on the table. I manage a tiny smile of thanks, a smile that she cannot answer with her tear-streaked face and eyes as blank and empty as I feel. I regret now, how much I despised her, accusing her of having ulterior motives. Though her morals are still more lax than I'd prefer, I see now that she truly loves my son.

Too late. For now, neither my son nor my husband shall ever return, annihilated above an insignificant moon of an insignificant planet. Simple mechanics aboard the Planetary Ore Extractor, they were murdered along with thousands of others by the Rebel terrorists, by Luke Skywalker. I hate him, and will hate him until my dying day.

Qatee sits down at the table beside me, clutching her own mug mechanically. I reach out, take her hand, and she meets my eyes. I have lost husband and son, she, the man to whom she was to be wed. In our shared grief, we will sustain each other, and count the days until Skywalker - all the Rebels - are brought to the justice they so richly deserve.


	4. Homecoming

I carefully lay the necklace on the floor, staring down at it there - a delicate, graceful chain adorned by a lovely fragment of moon marble, glimmering palely on the durasteel plating. His last gift to me. Taking a deep breath, I back away, exiting the airlock and sealing it tightly. The pendant was still warm from the kiss I'd pressed to it, but not for much longer. Space is cold.

I settle in the pilot's chair and open the airlock. Staring out the viewport in front of me, there's no way I could see such a small object, but I continue to watch the tumbling asteroids anyway. Maybe he'll see it, from wherever he is now, and know that I still love him, that I always will. Maybe, one day, I can move on, but not yet.

Firing the sublights, I maneuver slowly out the mass of rocks. It feels strange, not to have the weight of the necklace hanging against my chest, but I do not regret my gift to him. On Imperial Center, they have a wall for the Death Star. We of Alderaan have an asteroid field, and our tributes must tumble in space with the memories of our loved ones.


	5. Shattered

I reach out as the flake of metal drops, and it lands with a soft solid little _thwap_ in my palm. I turn it over slowly, examining it - the thickness of a piece of flimsy, and no larger then my thumbnail, it is impossible to tell whether the fragment of durasteel is from the Death Star or a destroyed cruiser. It doesn't really matter what it used to be a part of, though - it is still a perfect metaphor for the Empire. We have suffered a crippling blow, today - we have lost our Emperor, our Iron Fist, the Death Star, the _Executor_, and so many more. We have lost many of the best and brightest minds our Armed Forces have to offer. I do not think we can recover from this.

I glance around at the other prisoners, a motley mix of stormtroopers, techs, officers, and pilots who managed to eject or escape in pods, only to crash on this moon. We have all suffered the humiliation of being taken captive by fuzzballs with sharpened sticks and Rebels who aren't much more advanced, and there is no one to see to our freedom. Some of the prisoners are concerned, others are numb with shock and grief. I cannot care, now, what happens to me. I am not important when today, our Empire is weeping tears of blood from a shattered durasteel heart.


	6. Blanket

It didn't smell like him anymore, of course, not after all the times she'd had to wash it, but it was still his, and therefore a piece of him, and it helped her sleep. As Princess of Alderaan, she'd slept on shimmersilk sheets, as Rebel leader, she used the standard issue thermal blankets everyone used. She'd never encountered anything like Han's rough warm nerf-wool spacer's blanket before, and even once she got him back he was in danger of permanently losing it. She liked the slightly rough texture, the way it was big enough to wrap up in like a fancy breakfast crépe with Leia filling.

Whenever the longing for him became too much, she would return to her quarters and swathe herself in his blanket, crying into the material that was such a peculiarly good analogy to its former owner – a little rough, a little scratchy, but warm and comforting. She lay in her bunk, curled up and snugly wrapped up, running her hand over the blanket where the edge lay beside her. She would have to get up soon and get back to work, of course, but she would steal just a minute more first to just lay and wish he were here, to share the blanket with her.


End file.
